


The Thinnest of Veils

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, Halloween, Hauntings, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Death (Past), some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 14:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16451852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Something dark is afoot in Victorian London, but not all is as it seems. Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard seeks the assistance of Mycroft Holmes. But although his Halloween night begins with a sinister twist, it ends in a very unexpected manner.





	The Thinnest of Veils

          The unfortunate’s body was sprawled inelegantly on the fog-wet cobblestones of the narrow alley, her skirts spilling over her bare thighs, one shoe torn off in the struggle. There was something particularly heartbreaking about the many-times darned toe of her worn stocking. The reek of blood hung heavy and sharp in the air, underlain by the smell of unwashed small clothes, damp wool, rubbish, and coalsmoke.

          Too used to the reeking streets of London’s East End to notice, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard knelt next to the body, gesturing impatiently for one of the constables to bend lower with his lantern. The woman’s throat was slit from ear to ear, lending her the eerie look of a macabre clown. With a thumb and forefinger, Lestrade gingerly lifted the blood-soaked dress and peered underneath. “Anderson!” He barked, and the constable knelt next to him, bringing the lantern in dangerously close. Lestrade put out a staying hand and directed the light where he could better see.

          God in Heaven. Her belly was cut asunder and in the mess of entrails it was impossible to tell if any of her organs were missing, but Lestrade felt faint. They had all thought him dead. Could it be that he was back?

 

******

 

          This late on a chilly, damp October evening the Diogenes Club was nearly deserted. Mycroft Holmes lounged in a deep club chair near the fire, keen eyes half-closed, sipping at a brandy. Many of his compatriots at Whitehall had absconded to their hunting lodges, and things had been quiet of late. Unlike his younger brother he had never felt the need for copious amounts of exercise, but nevertheless he could admit to feeling bored, as if he were stagnating.

          Really, he considered, slowly drawing a cigar from the case, this amount of unrest in a man of his years and stature was unseemly. But the fact stood. He yearned for some adventure. Even just a break in the tedium.

          Silently appearing at his elbow, Edwards, one of the staff, held out a silver salver, upon which stood a card. Mycroft took his time lighting his cigar, and when it was burning steady and true he plucked the card up with fingers which were delicate and agile despite his size. Ah, it appeared he had a visitor in the form of the worthy Inspector. Nodding to Edwards, Mycroft stood and moved toward the private chamber where he received his rare visitors.

          A fire was burning low in the grate, and the gas lamps were turned low. Mycroft turned up the flames and stood waiting as he heard muffled footsteps approach. A discreet tap on the door, he bid them enter, and Edwards escorted the Inspector into the room with a bow. “Inspector,” Mycroft said civilly, “to what do I owe the honour of your visit?”

          He hadn’t seen the man in several years, since his brother’s unfortunate ending, and he was struck by the way the light danced in his hair. It also shadowed his eyes, and lent him a rather sepulchral air at odds with his usual Cockney brashness. “I perceive you’ve come in contact with something of an upsetting—indeed astounding—nature and have come to me for my opinion.”

          Lestrade nodded rather jerkily, mangling the brim of his bowler hat in his hands. “Mister Holmes,” he said hoarsely, “Thank you for seeing me. You’re right, I’ve seen something I wouldn’t have credited if not for seeing it with my own eyes.” He swallowed dryly.

          “May I offer you a drink, Inspector?”

          “Please.”

          “Whisky?”

          “Anything you’ve got.” Lestrade licked his lips as he watched Mycroft cross to the drinks cabinet and pluck out two glasses and the decanter of whisky. His hand, when he took the glass from Mycroft, shook slightly. “Ta,” and he tossed half of it off in one go.

          “Why don’t you sit and tell me what’s brought you to me,” Mycroft offered, more and more intrigued.

          Lestrade stared dumbly down into his glass and then looked up, face grim, “I think he’s back.” He swallowed, seeming to choke on the enormity of what he was about to say, “The Ripper.”

 

******

 

          There was something comforting, Lestrade thought, about the steady tap of Holmes’ walking stick on the pavement. Like a heartbeat. As if he had his ear pressed to that sturdy chest and could hear the organ drumming away. It must be a matter of affectation, something stylish amongst the rich and powerful, because while he was slightly on the portly side there was no need for a walking aid.

          Lestrade tore his mind from his contemplation of the great Holmes’ personal attributes, vaguely worried the notoriously intelligent and penetrating man would divine his thoughts. As a man of the law he knew better than most how dangerous it was to let his mind wander down _those_ pathways. Besides, they had the scene of a crime to examine, and a morgue to visit; it wasn’t exactly the time to get lost in his personal fascination with Mycroft Holmes.

          Clouds were scudding across the polluted sky of London, but the full moon shone brightly despite that, and the constable Lestrade has left on-site obeyed his dictums and has three lanterns burning. He looks frankly relieved when he catches sight of them, and Lestrade remembers with sympathy the first time he was left alone to stand guard over a body in the dead of night. Not that the body of the nearly middle-aged prostitute is still here. She had been removed to the morgue.

          Holmes is mostly silent as he paces the alley, bending and peering and stooping to inspect things which catch his interest. The occasional hmm or ah escapes him, but mostly he keeps his thoughts to himself. Lestrade tries to see the scene through his eyes, but he isn’t able to notice any more than he had previously. That there was a struggle is clear, as is the fact that the woman had fought hard but ultimately been defeated.

          There isn’t anything to be going on. Which is why he’s both annoyed and impressed when he finds himself in a rather disreputable hackney, rattling toward their destination at near midnight, across from Holmes, who is smugly certain they are on their way to confront a killer. He hasn’t explained himself—in this he is very like his late brother—only stated that the clues were clear to read. Not bloody likely, Lestrade had muttered, but kept his peace.

          It is dark and private in the cab, and their knees jostle. He is aware of the smell of pomade and bay rum and good tobacco, aware of the animal heat of the man, the crisp starch of his clothing, the pristine tailoring. Closing his eyes against a dizzying desire to press close, to seal his lips to the clever ones opposite him, Lestrade instead went over and over in his mind what he had observed in the alley and wondered what Holmes had seen that he had not.

          After a good deal of bluster and refusal they were shown into a square, solid gentlemen’s residence as the butler retreated, eyes avid with the desire for gossip, and the homeowner, clad in a hastily drawn on dressing gown, demanded to know what the devil they were about?

          “Mason,” Holmes drawled, stacking his hands on his walking stick, “I suggest you lower your voice, unless you wish the entire household to be privy to our conversation.” He nodded his head regally at Lestrade, “This is the good Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, whom you may recall has been mentioned in glowing dispatches in the _Times_.”

          It did not escape Lestrade’s notice that Mason looked rather pale at the revelation of Lestrade’s connection to Scotland Yard. He rallied however, “And that gives him the right to invade my home at this time of night, does it?”

          “In pursuit of a murderer, yes,” Holmes returned calmly. Lestrade kept his expression blank and forbidding.

          Mason spluttered, but it was no use, Lestrade had seen too many liars in his time. The man was panicking. “What possible reason would you have for coming to my door?” He demanded, recovering; but it was too late, he had given away his guilt, and tellingly, not asked who had been murdered.

          “The victim was your mistress,” Holmes charged coolly. “A clumsy attempt was made to disguise her as a common streetwalker, but we were able to easily detect the cleanliness of her nails and person, despite the noisome clothing she was dressed in. There were bruises visible beneath the slit in her throat, and her corpse was interfered with, an obvious ruse to throw suspicion on the Ripper. She was far too healthy for someone who was supposed to have been living on the streets.” He added drolly, “Apart, that is, from the small matter of her death.”

          “I—I don’t know what—”

          “Give over, Mason, it’s well known that you’ve kept Annabelle Hodge as your mistress for three years. I myself have seen you in her company at the Opera numerous times.”

          Sullenly, he grumbled, “So what of it? I’m not the only man with such an arrangement! It doesn’t mean I killed her!”

          “You’re certainly not the only man to wish to enter into such an arrangement with Miss Hodge, no. She has been seen in company with another man—it’s why you killed her, isn’t it?”

          The only answer he received was a formless cry of rage, as Mason clenched his hand around a letter opener and flung himself at Lestrade, whom he clearly perceived as the bigger threat.

          It was an unfortunate mistake. Holmes smoothly unsheathed a sword from his ubiquitous walking stick and stepped gracefully between them. Mason nearly impaled himself on the sword before he staggered to a halt. In the confusion, Lestrade simply picked up the solid marble bust of Gladstone on the desk and clipped the man neatly over the ear with it. He dropped as if his strings had been cut, groaning and cradling his head. Holmes politely pointed the tip of his sword to the man’s throat, which quelled some of his dramatics. “Kindly ring for someone to come collect our quarry, Inspector.”

          Using the telephone on the desk, Lestrade called in a request for a Black Maria, and then efficiently tied Mason’s hands behind his back with the sash from his dressing gown. “All this over a woman,” Lestrade said in mild disgust, dismayed and puzzled as ever by the lengths mankind was driven to over love. He’d never experienced an emotion so strong it would drive him to murder.

          “I wonder, Inspector,” Holmes said softly, sheathing his sword and facing him with an unreadable look, “if you’d care to join me for a late dinner á deux?” He smiled slowly, altering the haughty lines of his face into something approachable. “I find, Gregory, that I desire a setting far more private and…intimate.” His normally cool grey eyes were admiring, “Your prowess was…stimulating.”

          Lestrade’s pulse sped up and he very nearly wiped his suddenly damp palms on his trousers. Instead he lifted his chin and returned the smile, “I’d like that a great deal…Mycroft.” Before he can so far forget himself as to take a step forward and lay a hand on Mycroft’s arm (or worse, to chance a kiss), they are both startled by a loud trilling. “What on earth?” Lestrade cried out, highly alarmed at the unnatural sound.

          Mycroft’s mouth is moving, but Lestrade cannot hear him over the awful noise.

          Jerking awake, Greg lay for a moment in heart-pounding confusion and alarm, until he realized that his mobile was blaring at him. He’d set an alert on his phone to remind him that the gathering began at six. Groaning, he sat up and reached for the blasted thing, silencing the alarm and dropping it back to the coffee table so he could rub at his eyes. His brief nap had refreshed him somewhat, he supposed, but it had picked the worst possible moment to end.

          Moving a bit sluggishly toward the shower, Greg tried to dismiss the vague sense of dissatisfaction he felt at his dream ending before anything naughty had happened. Over the last few months he’d had quite a few steamy dreams about Mycroft Holmes, but this had been the weirdest one. He supposed the Jack the Ripper theme was natural, considering the annual meeting of Ripperologists he was planning on attending. The new director of the group had decided on Halloween night as being appropriate, and no doubt things would be particularly geared toward a fright. At the thought, he felt excitement and pleasure pulse through him, and he hurried to shower and shave.

******

 

          A little over an hour later, he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on one of the loaded hooks at the entrance to the pub. The meeting changed locations every year, and this year they were being hosted by one of the organizer’s brother-in-law, who owned a gastro pub in the Whitechapel area. Greg proceeded through towards the private room at the back the email had mentioned, and paused at the half-glass door in shock.

          Standing with a small group, drink in hand, was Mycroft Holmes. But a very different Mycroft from the impeccably dressed man Greg usually encountered. He was wearing dark gray cords, a black shawl collar jumper over a jade green button down and black-framed glasses. He was smiling and affable and Greg was absolutely floored.

          In a momentary panic he very nearly retreated, but just then Mycroft looked up and directly into his eyes. A complicated series of expressions flitted across his face, but then he smiled and nodded. Greg cursed silently, told himself to nut up, and opened the door. “Mycroft,” he greeted quietly, and with a murmur the other man extricated himself from his group and joined him.

          “Good evening, Greg.” He seemed vaguely uneasy, and Greg suspected that he hadn’t expected to see anyone he knew here. This wasn’t exactly his usual haunt. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you here.” He reached up, as if to touch his hair, but then dropped his arm and put his hand in his trouser pocket. It drew Greg’s attention to his hair, which he realized was different than usual; looser…less styled than normal. It was a distractingly good look on him, along with the glasses, which were giving him a sexy-librarian vibe that really didn’t help Greg’s massive crush.

          “I’ll admit I’m a bit surprised to find you here,” Greg said cheerfully, trying not to stare. He’d thought the three piece suits were distracting…! “Never saw you at one of our gatherings before. You a new devotee?”

          Mycroft grimaced slightly at the word devotee, but gamely explained that while he’d long harboured a fascination for the macabre, in particular for the Ripper, he hadn’t ever indulged in any gatherings before now. “I’ve been trying to broaden my experience in the last year,” he admitted, obliquely referring to the events on the Island the previous winter. Both of their faces sobered as they spared a moment of solemn thought for the tragic loss of Sherlock and John, “Mix more with people, pursue personal interests.” He smiled sardonically, “I have it on good authority that I become rather overly fixated on those under my aegis.”

          “Not a bad way to be,” Greg suggested, “s’long as you don’t become obsessed.”

          “Hence my efforts at becoming involved in aspects outside of work and my family.” Mycroft drained his glass, gestured at the far wall, “There is a barman preparing libations, and they have set up a rather tasty looking array of _hors d'oeuvres_. Shall we?”

          In a bit of a state at the proximity and approachability of his crush, Greg loaded a plate with goodies and requested a Snakebite. Mycroft, intrigued, ordered the same, and they found seats at one of the many small, round tables near the front. There was another quarter hour before the speakers were to begin, and Greg lost no time in eating, as he hated munching and crunching on food when someone was trying to hold the attention of the room. Plunging a Vietnamese spring roll into a puddle of _nuac mam_ he took a hearty bite. Wiping crumbs from his shirt he glanced at Mycroft, who was neatly forking up some tabbouleh and deftly transferring the slightly drippy contents onto a triangle of pita. “So who’s your favourite for the killer?”

          Their lively debate was interrupted by the over-loud clearing of a throat into the mic, and they settled back, prepared to listen to the lecturers (one of whom was a well-known mystery writer), take part in the customary Q & A, and then the evening would wrap with a display of memorabilia and collectibles. Many people were planning an impromptu walking tour of the crime scenes after, and Greg was gearing up to ask Mycroft if he’d care to join them, when the other man turned to him.

          “I was wondering, Greg, if you’d care to join me for a late dinner?” He smiled, looking both sincere and slightly terrified, “I’d welcome the chance to get to know you better.”

          _Holy hell_ , Greg thought, dazed and afraid he was still dreaming, _it’s finally happening;_ so dazed and tempted was he that for a moment he couldn’t respond. As Mycroft’s face started to close down he panicked, and a voice sounding unsettlingly like Sherlock’s growled _Just say yes!_ Shaken by the experience, which had felt weirdly as if someone else had spoken to him, rather than his own thoughts, Greg stammered, “I-I’d love to, Mycroft.” He realized he sounded stilted and injected the warmth he felt into his voice, “That’d be brilliant, actually.”

          Mycroft’s eyes were bright, and his colour was high, “Wonderful,” he said, slightly breathless. They smiled at one another, the look only broken when someone passing by brushed into a still dazed and light-headed Greg and he stumbled closer. Mycroft put out a staying hand and said again, softly, “Wonderful.”

 

******

 

          And it _was_ wonderful, Mycroft reflected, watching the light of the low votive bend and dance over Greg’s face; they had walked to a taxi stand and then gone to a quiet place Mycroft knew of. The service was outstanding, the food delicious and the ambiance perfect.

          They talked easily of the lectures they had listened to as they sipped a crisp Sauvignon Blanc while they shared crab cakes with a spicy mango chutney. The waiter, sensing a good tip, was attentive but unobtrusive. Clearing away the remains of the appetizer, he took their orders for veal saltimbocca and stuffed sardines and melted discreetly away.

          “This place is amazing,” Greg commented, looking around. He smiled across the table at Mycroft as he had been doing frequently, as if pleased by the sight of him. “I’m glad you suggested it.” He looked almost shyly down at his hands, “Getting to know you like this is…special.”

          Incredibly, he seemed to mean it. Even more incredibly, Mycroft believed him without using his skills at observation to delve deeper. He was aware that he was feeling a peace he hadn’t felt in years, perhaps decades, and it all seemed to be due to spending time with the man who held more fascination for him than had often seemed wise. As if reading his mind, Greg said slowly, “’m having a really great time—dunno if I’ve been this relaxed in ages.”

          “I was thinking something similar,” Mycroft admitted, sitting back slightly as the waiter approached with a fresh bottle of wine. He hadn’t even realized he had been leaning over the table towards Greg.

          Glasses recharged, they assured the waiter they had everything they needed. Promising to return soon with their entrees, he departed.

          “Reckon he thinks we’re on a date?” Greg asked. Mycroft, lips parted to mouth some inane comment, was shaken when the familiar voice which had so badly startled him at the pub spoke again, _Stop dicking around. Take it from me, you don’t have eternity to say the things you want._

“I-I’d rather hoped we were.” He managed to stutter out. His face went warm at the imminent humiliation. Greg’s eyes flew up to his, looking startled. There was a breathless moment and then he reached across the table and curled his fingers warmly into Mycroft’s palm, grip firm, comforting.

          “I’d love that,” he said simply, face radiating honesty and earnestness. A breath Mycroft had scarcely been aware of holding escaped him and he found himself smiling rather tremulously. Unable to speak for a moment, he squeezed Greg’s hand.

          “What made you ask me?” Greg asked curiously, after the waiter had delivered their food and departed. He ignored his meal for the moment, studying Mycroft’s face. “I don’t mean this the way it sounds, but you’re hardly the type to declare yourself. Always thought you had little use for us mere mortals.”

          “You…wouldn’t be wrong,” Mycroft admitted. “For the vast majority of people I have “little use” indeed, but you have long risen above them in my estimation.” The formality of his own speech dismayed him, but it seemed to please his companion, who squeezed his hand again before releasing it and picking up his cutlery.

          “I think a lot of you too,” Greg said softly, “Admired you for years really…had a crush just about as long.” He went slightly red around the ears, “Always hoped you didn’t know. Sherlock threatened to tell you a time or two, when I wouldn’t produce cases magically for him.” Glancing up, he pinned Mycroft with the warm regard of his dark brown eyes, “Really surprised you admitted anything, takes courage.” His lips twisted self-deprecatingly, “Courage I’m not sure I would have had.”

          Mycroft’s own courage faltered, and he altered his intended answer, “I’ve—I’ve been dreaming of him quite a bit.” He pressed his lips together then confessed, “And of you, as well. So many strange dreams, often during Victoria’s reign, but also farther back, and contemporary. Often very bemusing and odd in the way of dreams.” He stabbed at an asparagus spear, “I suppose perhaps it’s the seasonal influence of Halloween—the notion that spirits can cross over and deliver messages.”

          Sounding deeply unsettled, Greg slowly set down his fork, “That’s odd, I’ve been having a lot of dreams as well—all sorts of daft ones. You and me, John and Sherlock in crazy situations and weird places.”

          Mycroft fought off a foolish shiver, “What an odd coincidence,” he said lightly.

          “Is it?” Greg had apparently abandoned his untouched meal in favour of brooding. “Not the only weird thing that’s happened to me lately. Tonight—well, I thought I heard him, Sherlock…thought I heard his voice as clear as day while we were at the pub.”

          Shivering no longer contained, Mycroft lowered his own cutlery. “At the pub, did you say?”

          Despite his casual tone of inquiry, Greg’s eyes narrowed speculatively. Well, the man was a detective inspector after all. “You’ve heard him too, haven’t you?”

          “…yes.”

          Greg squeezed his eyes briefly closed, then they flared open, bright with excitement, “Jesus, do you know what this means?”

          “That we’re both mad?” Mycroft asked weakly. It was one of his serious fears. His family history was such that would easily convince him that he had lost his reason.

          “We can’t both have gone mad at the same time—be having the same hallucinations.” Greg was growing more excited, and his energy revitalized Mycroft. “Christ, Mycroft, do y’know what this means? It means it’s real—ghosts. It’s possible for them to communicate with us.”

          “Lower your voice,” Mycroft cautioned prudently, seeing several diners cast glances their way at his raised voice. “It simply can’t be. It isn’t logical.”

          “Life’s not all about logic,” Greg said, “Trust a thirty year veteran of the Metropolitan police to know that. I’ve seen some things, Mycroft, that I’ve never been able to explain. But I’ve never experienced anything like hearing Sherlock speak to me. It was like he was in my head, but not.”

          “Yes,” Mycroft agreed softly, “It was like that, wasn’t it?” His eyes stung with the threat of tears; appalled, he blinked them back. Now was not the time to be stricken with fresh grief over his little brother’s loss. Sudden hope flared high in his soul, and Mycroft tremored with an influx of emotion. It was all too much, this night. His foray into something new, the dinner, Greg’s return of his affections, the knowledge that his brother was reaching out, and the devastating pang of knowing he was gone forever. No matter how logical Mycroft tried to be, grief had surprised him untold times with the power to hurt him. He thought perhaps he would never stop missing his brother with a fresh loss.

          The warm grasp of Greg’s hand was not only comforting, but it had the power to pull him out of his gloomy thoughts. Mycroft met his eyes, emotions turbulent, excitement rising through the confusion and grief. There was something compelling about the connection between them, and now that they had both admitted their mutual attraction, Mycroft felt an almost dizzying sense of optimism and joy unfolding.

          “Seems like we have a lot to talk about, and it’s probably best we do it someplace quiet, or people really will think we’re mad. Come back to mine with me?” Greg flushed slightly, “We can get our food to go and talk this all over.” He smiled almost bashfully, “I’m not ready for the night to be over.”

          “Nor am I,” Mycroft agreed, squeezing his hand. He cleared his throat, “Perhaps some coffee and dessert as well? No need to rush, on my end, I haven’t any pressing calls upon my day tomorrow.”

          “Yeah,” Greg agreed, beaming, “Saturdays free for me as well. Sunday too.”

          Not quite meeting one another’s eyes, for fear they would say too much, Greg flagged down the waiter and requested takeaway containers, and a hazelnut flan with caramel sauce and fresh berries for them to share. “I have the makings of Irish coffee at my flat, if that suits?”

          “Very much,” Mycroft said, eyes soft. “It very much suits me indeed.”

          _Well done, brother mine,_ Sherlock’s voice said, sounding unbearably smug. _Think I’ll pop back through the veil to John now, if you don’t mind. I don’t need to witness the two of you making awkward love._

          _Who says it will be awkward?_ Mycroft thought tartly, and heard the sound of his brother’s laughter fade away as Greg smiled across the table at him.

 

 

         

         

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @savvyblunders


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